I just want to look in the mirror and recognize the face crying back at me.
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It's a daunt I've known not of for, as naive as I was about the intensity of the heart transplant stay, I was not quite so scared then as I am now of this even less-intense procedure. And right now, it's too much.
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$5 at the cafe ain't bad, unless you are sitting there waiting for news you know won't be great and you just want to get it over with as soon as humanly possible. So, please have your $5 and just get me in the door...
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A poem.
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It has made my mind at once both open and confined, my brain like a bone encrusted fishbowl just waiting for something to drop in, swim around, and see if it suits.
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But I delved further, forcing myself to glean moments of note. Presently, things began simmering to the top of the pot, making themselves shinny and apparent, like little bubbles of oil in a well-seasoned pasta sauce.
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Let me be abundantly clear. This blog is not for you.
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